"Everything In Between"
Looked truth in the eye.
Hoped to catch it in its lie
But my aim shrouded my focus.
Through this aversion, I have noticed
That some ends only exist
To take us back to the origin.
Those who finish and persist
Will eventually be born again.
The path in between
Be it far from pristine
Seldom completely clean in nature
is still meant to be savored.
From the late text
To the latex,
to the lack thereof
To the mutual evidence of love
Rest moments likely reserved
for those who will preserve
And promote what they hold dear.
Far before the fear
Are the days measured in breaths.
More exhales per hour
For those riddled with regret.
Patience coincides with power
Needed to cultivate our youth.
Seedless membranes yield strange fruit;
But the lush will land with grace
Lest they prefer landing on their face.
Origin perceived serpentine
Up until light peers through the cracks.
Acts formed around one's younger years
constantly in the mouths of mothers
And the ears of jealous brothers,
covetous aunts and worrisome grandmothers.
Mother defined by daughter's expanding mind
Sure to be judged on what she finds.
The avenues are endless.
None are sinless. No one sins less.
Men less concerned will not discern
Between her origin and her departure.
Her forfeiture dependent on what she shares.
Her survival contingent upon her care.
Growth forged from what dashes despair.
Her hair the hourglass of her existence.
Early persistence some claim as reward
Paid back as penance to become wards;
Wrought under the watch of those wise
Enough to cloak their eyes
And present it as her shelter.
How they aim to swarm.
They embrace her skin so warm
With no beseech. Just breach and harm.
Far from grace many will fall
Yet among some, many stand tall
Not for sake of survival stories
Or the spoils of grieve and glory.
Simply just to trace the path
Set forward from looking back
To observe how little matters
And how much less should be gathered.
Here she counts her months in laughter
and her years in wholesome chatter
Between the mother she calls daughter
And the child she prays for much harder.
Her glasses rest in place.
The frame perfect for her face.
A lifetime of knowledge traced
by wincing eyes still giving chase
To every single moment around her.
She would raise a loving mother
Whom she hopes would raise another.
They will one day become her.
I used to hope that I would be
Around long enough to see
Just how much they've grown to be
The symbol of love laying before me.
I looked her in the eyes.
Never could catch her in a lie.
There is much mangling of truth
But what is certain never dies.
Its origin is as vast
As the path that it purveys.
How long what manifests will last
Is written in each hourglass.
Every strand beneath a comb,
every doll on makeshift thrones,
every tea pot in the home
And rocking chair now left alone.
Every single chastising tone
Over scratches and broken bones
And that distinct, familiar tone
When we would talk on the phone.
Every wife is not a mother.
Some sisters have no brothers.
Some grandparents are no longer around;
But what I have surely found
Is the truth that what we see
Was and is and will soon be
For what has left us in the end
Will certainly return.
Reborn again. †
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
"Idle Thoughts Part 4: Milky Vanilla"
I didn't request a double.
Generous and subtle,
Another portion poured
As if it were your favorite chore.
You pretend to slip.
Perfect way to lose your grip.
Heavy hands suddenly throttled
and you knew I'd catch the bottle.
Sat it down. Looked around.
Still in her bedroom, it seems.
Can't quite call this a dream
But all is surreal at the seams.
Brink of reality. The cusp of fantasy
All while I'm sitting here.
Revert to normalcy.
It may be time to go…………
…………I'll just sip slow.
Everything is hazy.
What's in the drink you gave me?
I still feel my feet;
But they wander the street.
I'm still pursuing you?
If it's all the same,
I'm not really one for games.
I don't even know your name.
I just acknowledged the flame.
I'm without polish again.
Dress shirt from the cleaners.
Generic demeanor
And a closet full of sneakers.
Got these dress shoes
From a friend who never went to church.
Shoe box value kept its worth.
Searched for keys and found her purse.
Sat there between frown and smirk.
Could've sworn I left this room.
Why are we still in this bed?
Thoughts of you still in my head.
You don't snore. You breathe.
Makeup on my sleeve.
I guess it's easy to believe
That one in my current list of wiles
Would've followed you for miles
Like it would erase my trials.
"Shots belong in glasses; not vials."
That's what she would say.
Came back here today.
Tonight, rather
Just to watch the band play.
I love the bright lights.
I've had the sweaty brow.
I'm still ready now
But I'll just nurse this whiskey.
Peculiar is me wondering if you missed me.
Feels as if it's just me
and you're staring instead.
Fault lines were glowing red.
Now I don't know what I read.
No pickup lines were fed.
Just a little conversation.
City blocks longer than nations
We traverse for hibernation.
It all made sense from the start.
Still don't know your name.
Never asked you for your heart.
I guess that's called lagniappe.
Between the laps we walked instead,
thoughts racing through my head,
that nap shared in your bed,
and this napkin now dark red,
I guess the mood is mellow now.
The napkin is yellow now.
I guess red was the warning.
I was read as charming
but not enough to cost you.
The subtlety in your view
Says "I can't wait to accost you"
As you take away my glass.
No doubt you were my most recent past
Fully aware of my past
From conversing about the future.
Sat here looking like "I knew her……"
"…………I know her! No, her!"
My befriended bartender
more thick than slender
With the heavy sheen.
Skirt replaced by jeans
But skin still that of vanilla milk.
My feet never felt better.
Let her continue her shift.
My eyes shift across the wall.
Examined it all.
Then let the frustration fall.
My memories once plagued
Now appear so very vague;
Crumbling as they fade
In the dim of these lamp shades.
And I'm walking down the street.
And the music was a treat.
And my past is not discreet.
My glass of milk light on her feet.
Refreshing. Yummy. Delicious.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
"The Blush Effect"
Conversing supple like that of
lotion over silken pores.
Easy are the interactions.
My distraction from everything and nothing at all.
I recall leaning against those walls:
the halls of my last place while you anticipate.
Always ready for a taste.
Words that relate in mood.
Found myself smitten as a believer:
Stanzas I deliver
to the enchantment of my receiver
clutching her receiver as if I'd leave her.
We both knew better, baby.
Maybe if the night were longer,
our connection wouldn't seem so brief.
We wouldn't have to ingest the day again.
Our plans would resemble
more fruition than condition.
We would calibrate instead of rehashing
or stashing it all away as sunlight approaches.
Through it all, it would seem
that your fancy involves my ire.
You rub against each thread
until my warmth is present……
……………………then you pull away.
You stay long enough to perfume the air
but even one so fair as you
refused to see it through.
I love every minute that I'm in it.
Too enchanted to be enraged.
Too full to vent frustration.
Generosity in your fascination with me.
I've often failed to glance at what you see.
You sidestep my modesty
and honestly do away with my humble.
You let me mumble
yet you barely even stumble
over my befuddled state of affairs.
Your steadfast interaction
while initially unsettling
is admittedly as refreshing
as the first breath after my last sip.
I've lost my grip.
Shall we call this palpable tension
something seldom noticed and less demonstrative?
Can we say that I perspire
from this mug of hot chocolate?
Can we pretend that I'm not out of pocket
when I say that I've imagined
that deep, full tone all alone
with this lap as your throne?
Can we digress from the fits of stress
that vary from blinks to winks
to glasses of sherry and crushed cherries?
Is it me or is it warmer?
Your glances stronger than any other's advances.
You've fashioned me the charmer
but I've fancied you taking your chances.
So dubious……
My face is evidently flushed.
My last gasp lodged deep within my throat
and you just gracefully float
hours after we've staved our touch.
I'd say you're too much
but I'm a shameless glutton
making room for sigh and swoon.
This crescent moon will fill
before I chastise my will.
Smoothing over every "hi"
are moments that make "goodbye"
harder to look forward to.
Some texts take forever.
Some calls don't get through.
And now you have the audacity
to sit here before me;
nodding in calm admiration?
Patience,
be a living manifestation this moment,.
Please……
Rosy cheeks fluctuate in pigment
although this place is dimly lit.
Palms never before now
asphyxiated to trembling knees.
Blood rushing free
And you just look at me and smile;
all the while observing me
in wonder and amazement:
Less for awe and more for dwindled time keeping.
I'll impart formal greetings soon.
Just let the swoon subside.
You found me on this ride
amid an everlasting rush.
I already know.
Just say it:
"Hush."
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
"Rusty Swings"
The park is two blocks away.
I used to see it every day
but there are buildings in the way.
What more is there to say
of my current state of affairs?
Too young to go there
so it bears no mention.
Always was forced to listen:
"Not until you're older, dear.
Until then, just stay over here.
Nothing for you over there."
I'm not old enough to go anywhere.
Same stoop. Same buildings.
Still sitting here,
but I've picked up some years.
The shouts of energetic peers
used to fill my ears
but I haven't left yet.
Mom bought me this headset.
Same color as my controller.
Beat this game to claim my fame.
Cheat codes buried in my folder.
Glanced over my shoulder.
Looks like the air is getting colder.
Besides, the teenagers are there now.
I'll just wait until I'm older.
No summer jobs. No scholarships.
Just the ever present politics
that give way to arguments
about my lapse in productivity.
I don't know what they want from me.
I am not what they want me to be.
My point of view they never see.
Why should I care? I'm Twenty-Three!
I've made my own decisions.
Contrary to what was envisioned,
I am not here for display
but I share in their dismay:
The trees have been cut down.
Concrete surface. Flattened ground.
No sand lot to build a fort.
Not even a basketball court.
5:45. Barely feeling alive;
but those fries won't fry themselves.
6:02. Ignored a neighbor or two.
Dodged the rock that kid threw.
There goes my wind shield.
Through those shards of glass,
my peripheral vision still yields
a glimpse of the "For Sale" sign.
I may never have the money.
I certainly don't have the time
to bring back what I never had.
Ah well. Can't waste it being sad.
I've become wiser in my aging.
Spent my younger years staging
an all out assault on my liver.
More liquor than the store could deliver.
Years have cultivated tier upon tier
of an abundance of tears
flowing like an endless river
into the glass of one so bitter.
Not one known for wiles of wit,
from day to day I just sit.
Passers by have little to say
so I just look two blocks away.
It would appear they've added things:
Monkey bars, a couple swings,
a sand box for building forts,
even a full basketball court.
I sit and watch them running.
They are never vexed.
They know nothing of stress.
Children living so carefree.
As calming as it is to see,
that park will forever haunt me.
I live through them vicariously
but they're closer than I'll ever be.
Some of it my parent's fault.
Much of it my own volition.
Placed myself below the bar
to become it's cold extension.
Only ran for sake of pretension.
Built sand castles of contradiction.
Knew the rain would come some day.
Should have taken more time to play.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
